


Saved

by 1YouKnowWhatILikeAboutHim1



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Castiel in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Castiel/Dean Winchester First Time Having Sex, Ending Fix, F/M, First Time Blow Jobs, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Fix-It-But-Then-Its-More, Happy Ending, Hunter Castiel (Supernatural), Hunters & Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Basically Writing A Whole Season, I'm New At This So I'll Update Tags As I Go, I'm not sorry, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Repressed Bisexual Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, They Go On Hunts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:01:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29818431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1YouKnowWhatILikeAboutHim1/pseuds/1YouKnowWhatILikeAboutHim1
Summary: Castiel made dying for Dean Winchester look easy.Dean knows how to die for someone. Dean knows how to lay down his life for those he cares about, to say yes in their place, to sacrifice himself in the moment to save the day. To save someone. To save Sam, Mary, John, Jack.Cas.And for all his knowledge about how to die, he has. While memories of the Pit remain locked in a distant corner of his mind, he’ll never forget the sacrifice he made for Sam, for the good of the world. Willingly. Happily. Dean remembers every death. How each one he welcomed if it made the difference, saved family, people. Dean Winchester would sacrifice himself ten times over for family, or the world, if it meant they would make it through in his stead. Dying for someone was easy to Dean.But Dean Winchester didn’t know how to be saved. Not when Sam offered up his life, not when anyone else did. Dean didn’t know how to keep on living so that sacrifice wasn’t all for nothing. How in the hell is he supposed to do that? To accept that?He doesn't.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14





	1. 1

Castiel made dying for Dean Winchester look easy. 

Dean knows how to die for someone. Dean knows how to lay down his life for those he cares about, to say yes in their place, to sacrifice himself in the moment to save the day. To save someone. To save Sam, Mary, John, Jack. 

Cas. 

And for all his knowledge about how to die, he has. While memories of the Pit remain locked in a distant corner of his mind, he’ll never forget the sacrifice he made for Sam, for the good of the world. Willingly. Happily. Dean remembers every death. How each one he welcomed if it made the difference, saved family, people. Dean Winchester would sacrifice himself ten times over for family, or the world, if it meant they would make it through in his stead. Dying for someone was easy to Dean. 

But Dean Winchester didn’t know how to be saved. Not when Sam offered up his life, not when anyone else did. Dean didn’t know how to keep on living so that sacrifice wasn’t all for nothing. How in the hell is he supposed to do that? To accept that? 

Dean tried to find the answers in whatever bottles of beer they had in the fridge. Sam’s essentials run usually include a pack or two of beer, but he didn’t even stop to look at what he brought home that morning. The cap was off, tumbling across the kitchen, and the beer finished off before it could settle with a final _klink_. Dean didn’t think twice to grab a second and third. By his fourth, his place slowed just enough to taste the beer before finishing it off. The fifth and sixth did nothing to soothe the guilt and confusion. Maybe Jack Daniels would have the answers? Years of drinking taught him it wouldn’t, but he pushed that down with the rest of his abandoned common sense. 

Dean tossed the bottle on the island counter, ignoring how it clashed into the others, and a few rolled off onto the floor. He left for the whiskey he knew he left in the library. The bunker was quiet, his heavy boots leaving heavy thumps against the cold floor. The library was always better company in the bunker, the stacks and atmosphere comfortable and warm. This time it held the liquor, the only comfort Dean had right now. Dean stepped up into the library where the bottle sat half-empty. Right where he left it. He tossed the lid and raised it to his lips. It was hot and sweet in comparison to the beer, the burn now tolerable with the beer settling in his stomach. He slumped into the nearest chair, taking gulps of whiskey from the bottle as fast as his body would allow. 

No matter how fast he got himself drunk, he never could outrun the thoughts of Cas. Dean tried, he really did. When he and Sam went to Chuck and offered to give in, to give Chuck the Biblical brother smackdown he wanted, he demanded Chuck bring Cas back. But Chuck refused. Dean knew he couldn’t get Cas out by himself, so when he encouraged Jack to come back to the bunker with him, he planned to start the rescue mission the moment they climbed in the Impala. But Jack left. Jack left them, and Dean couldn’t blame him for it. Hell, he was God now. 

“I just let him go,” Dean mumbled between whiskey sips that were burning less and less. Dean sighed and let his head fall back against the chair. At this point, he wasn’t sure who he meant. Jack or Cas. 

Dean shouldn’t be alive right now. He knew it. For all the crap they’d been through, neither of them should be here. He sliced her and she came back for him. Billie latched onto his heart and squeezed. He raised his hand to rub where his heart sat beneath his chest. A painful ache sat deep beneath his ribs. It hadn’t really gone away. Not since that day. And it wasn’t Billie. He let Cas die and he was too damn shocked at what Cas said to do anything about it. Too damn shocked to even tell Sam. His blood still stained on his jacket when they asked what happened. How could he have told Sam? Should he have? 

_No_ , he thought. 

Another swig. 

Cas said that to _him_ , and he died for it. How could he? Another burst of guilt ripped through Dean, his heart clenching and aching harder in response. 

Another swig. 

Dean couldn’t even pinpoint what he felt more guilty for. Not saying anything to Cas before the Empty took him? 

Another swig. 

For cutting Billie in the first place and causing the whole thing?

Another swig. 

Or for letting Jack go and not telling him that getting Cas back was priority? 

Another swig. 

For spending a week after Jack left doing nothing but getting drunk instead of finding out how to get Cas back? Everything on this damn Earth came back but him. 

Dean brought the bottle to his lips for another drink but only managed a few drops. The bottle was fucking empty. 

His grip tightened on the bottle before standing and launching it at the nearest wall. Dean flinched as glass shards flew, the bottle exploding next to the open archway. He regretted it the second it hit the wall, but what was he to do now? Just another action done to regret immediately. 

“Dean!” He heard Sam before he showed, his voice and what sounded like bare feet slapping down the hall. He was in the room within seconds, pajama-clad and gun in hand. He must have left Miracle in his room. He looked around, from Dean to the rest of the room until he spotted the glass on the floor. Sam decocked the gun and let his arms fall to his side. 

“Everything’s fine,” Dean said. His stomach swirled from the moment and he slumped back down into the chair, one hand moving to grip his abdomen. Sam placed his gun on the table before leaving the room without a word, returning a moment later with a broom and dustpan. Dean didn’t miss the look he threw his way. He knew that look. Sam was going to try and talk about his fucking feelings. 

Sam spent a few careful minutes sweeping glass. Dean made no movement to help, but instead tracked every look Sam threw his way. When he was done he left the dustpan and broom on the floor. Sam grabbed the chair next to Dean and sat, running his hands through his hair a few times before clasping them together and setting his stare right on Dean. 

Dean’s eyebrows knit together, confused, but still, Sam said nothing. Leave it up to Sam to get weird about this shit. It was all therapy sessions and chick flick moments with him. Sam knew what was going on, at least as much as he could realize. Dean was sure he had no idea about what Cas told him. Dean didn’t hold his gaze, he couldn’t, but the beer and whiskey were starting to encourage a very nasty drunken anger. Moments trickled by and Sam still didn’t say a word. Fuck it. 

“What’dya want, Sam?” He said with a hint of a slur. 

“I want to know what’s up with you, Dean. That’s what.” Sam’s voice was pointed, but still soft. Sam knew this was more than the bullshit excuses Dean’s been throwing his way this whole week. 

“Don’t know what you mean, Sammy. Couldn’t be better. Everyone’s back and kicking, we beat Chuck and I’m just having a little fiesta fun after saving the world.” Dean threw him a fake smile, knowing it wasn’t going far with him. For all the drinking and the sleeping and the doing nothing this week it’s a surprise Sam hasn’t tried to Dr. Phil him earlier. Dean knew Sam was busy keeping tabs on how things were operating now that Chuck wasn’t running the show anymore, but pathetic attempts to check in on Dean were just that. Pathetic. A dismissal and a half-assed joke got a grumble and silence. Prying was always Sam’s specialty. This time, Sam didn’t even blink through Dean’s excuse. 

“Last time I checked, celebrating didn’t include the angry smashing of bottles.” Sam’s mouth opened, but he shut it. His shoulders drooped, the tension in his posture falling away. He cleared his throat, “Is this about Cas?” 

_Yes._

“No.”

“Dean, I think-”

“I don’t want to talk about Cas,” Dean snapped, throwing Sam a warning look that only went ignored. He knew he was pushing Dean’s buttons, knowing full well it could earn him a punch in the face if he pushed too far. Dean might be on his way to drunk but that’s never thrown him off before. 

“Dean, what the hell happened? And it’s not nothing. You’re drinking whiskey like it’s water. You’re in your room most of the day. I haven’t seen you eat a proper meal since we’ve been back and I’m pretty sure you’ve been wearing the same shirt for three days now.” Sam gauged Dean’s reaction, feeling out the situation; if Dean would cooperate or not. He wasn’t sure yet if he would. He refused to meet Sam’s eye, instead, eyes tracking the wall or down at his shirt. 

_It doesn’t look that bad._

“All I’m saying is that this isn’t celebrating and you know it. Losing Cas,” Dean’s eyes dart to Sam’s and he pauses, the look in Dean’s venturing on dangerous. 

“I said I don’t wanna talk about it,” Dean said, voice hard and unwavering. 

“I know, but Dean, you can’t keep bottling this crap up, man. It sucks, it does. It’s not fair.”

“You think I don’t know that it’s not fair? Huh, Sam? He...” His stomach churned at the thought of just how unfair it was. He couldn’t talk about it. No, not like this was therapy and talking about his feelings was going to fix this. It wasn’t going to get better. Dean let Cas down. He let him die, and he let Jack go without bringing him back. All Dean ever knew how to do was let people down, how to fail them. The guilt ripped through him again, tearing him open. 

“Look, I know this isn’t the first time we lost Cas. I think about Jack and Cas too. I miss having them around, too. But they’re gone now. Last time you were getting through it but they’re gone now. And we just have to keep on so their sacrifices aren’t for nothing. You gotta push past it.” 

_This isn’t the first time. Keep on so their sacrifices aren’t for nothing. Push past it._

No, it wasn’t the first time. It’s always easier to say “get over it” when it wasn’t you someone died for. When it wasn’t you Cas died for. 

All for loving Dean Winchester. 

Sam watched as Dean stood, legs unstable as the whiskey traveled to set a heavy cloud head to toe, and walked out. Sam could shove moving on where the sun doesn’t shine. Sam might be able to move on, to forget, but Dean can’t. His wobbly legs made it to his room and he slammed the door shut before collapsing onto the bed face first. 

“I just... let him go,” he mumbled into a tangle of sheets and what felt like half of a pillow. 

The booze and exhaustion hit him at once and he was out before he could even think to take off his boots. 

_____________________

Dean Winchester never liked dreaming much. Good dreams, sure. But bad dreams spawned from bad thoughts, bad experiences. And he’s had far too many of those. Dreams were supposed to be an escape; a time where you can experience your best memories, live out your wildest fantasies with hot celebrities or be something, somebody else. For Dean, dreams meant reliving the lowlights, the things that eat at him when he’s awake. 

It wasn’t the first night Dean dreamed of Cas. Dean dreamed of the way Cas smiled when he let the Empty take him. In that moment, the room closed in, suffocating Dean. Paralyzing him. The darkness reaches out and inch by inch spread over Cas, over that stupid smiling face. How the entire world was suddenly empty and cold, taking all the people he ever cared for. He dreamed of blades plunging into Cas. April. Lucifer. Every moment he’d been made to watch the light pour out of his best friend, to watch him _die_. 

Dean woke up, sweat sticking to his sheets through his shirt, and throat dry. He rolled over with a groan. Images of blades and black goo still coursed through his head and he looked over, trying to focus on anything but. His phone and a glass of water sat on the bedside table next to his gun. Dean reached over, grabbing the glass and taking a sip. The coolness felt good, but only aggravated his whining stomach. His eyes caught something white next to his phone, a note. 

_Take these when you get up._

Dean eyed the pills beside the note before swallowing them with another sip of water. He checked the time. 5:30 am. His boot catching the end of his bed frame as he turned and rolled over. Sam couldn’t at least bother with the boots if he was going to come in and mother him? He slid his phone into his jeans pocket before sitting up. He gripped the edge of the bed, fingers curling into the sheets as his head spun. Violent memories and a dull throb behind his forehead. The sway didn’t quite go away despite the dizziness clearing. 

_Great, I'm still a little drunk._

Dean drank more water hoping it would help clear his head. He thought back to Miracle. Sam would surely be keeping him in his room right now. Dean missed the warm fur hugs after he’d woken, something Miracle took to quickly in the past week. 

When he felt stable enough, he stood. Blades, goo, and dull throb clashed in his mind, sending white spots in his vision. He fell back down to the bed with a heavy thump, palms flying to closed eyes. 

“Fuck,” he hissed. Despite the lasting wooziness from the whiskey, his thoughts screamed. Guilt bounced and hissed and hurt cried between every throb. No amount of rubbing his eyes made them go away. When the white spots faded he opened his eyes. When the dizziness faded he looked around. Light from the bedside lamp laid a low warm light across the room, not enough to see everything, but enough for Dean to make out the crumple of clothing on his table. His jacket. Up until yesterday, the jacket sat in the trunk of the Impala where Dean didn’t have to look at it, at that bloody handprint. But seeing it sit on his desk, as if it wasn’t the only thing Cas had left behind, hurt. 

“I can’t do this,” he whispered, hesitant. Steady breaths quickened, his breath becoming more shallow as his eyes fixed on the jacket. When the words passed his lips he felt it. He felt his body, his mind, his heart lock together at once. Quick breaths became panicked attempts to breathe, palms slick with sweat that stuck to the bedsheets fisted through his fingers. His eyes flickered between the brick wall and his jacket. “I can’t do this,” he said, body and mind agreeing for the first time in days, “Not again. I let him go; I gotta get him out.” In one quick motion he was up, gun tucked in his jeans, jacket in hand, and out the door. 

Dean ignored the pounding in his head as he pushed through the bunker halls and into the war room. He paused at the edge of the staircase, glancing back toward the halls, waiting. Silent moments passed and when there was no sign of Sam, he took the stairs two at a time and left. 

_____________________

Early August mornings in Lebanon were warm and peaceful. Rays of sunshine peeked through tall grass tipped with dew. The air smelled sweet, and you’d think if you walked far enough you’d come across an orange and yellow sea of sunflowers or dahlias. Early August mornings in Lebanon held lingering hints of misty rain or the subtle hints of midday showers carried through the wind. 

But as Dean Winchester walked the streets of Lebanon, there were no dewdrops or fields of yellow and orange. The air chilled around his exposed forearms, goosebumps trailing from arm to back to legs. The air smelled of sickly sweet tar, a smell that albeit familiar, still sent his stomach lurching when the wind carried it by. He couldn’t stop though. Dean never thought himself much of a walking man. Why walk when you can take a drive to clear your head? The road beneath the wheels, a good cassette tape, and the hum of the engine were all he needed. But driving and whiskey wasn’t something Dean always liked to mix. And this felt personal. He needed to walk, to feel the ground beneath him as he walked to where he was going. And he would know where he needed to be when he got there, that he was sure of. 

Muscles screamed when he quickened his pace, urgency driving him forwards faster. His eyes scanned from left to right, side to side as he walked. The field to his right passed by faster than he thought. His eyes traced the tips of the grass but everything was a slow blur before leaving his field of vision. The darkness closed in around him, squeezing his chest tighter until quick and shallow breaths burned in his lungs. The chill bit down, urging the squeeze on his chest tighter. 

Blades, black goo, and bloody handprints played again and again in his mind. 

Blades. Black goo. Bloody handprint. Blades. Black goo. Bloody handprint. Black goo. Bloody handprint. Black goo. Bloody handprint. Bloody handprint. Bloody handprint.

 _Cas’ handprint_.

“Goddamnit!” Dean yelled as he slammed the jacket into the ground. He rested his hands on his hips as he lowered his head, trying to regulate his breathing. He wasn’t sure how far he walked, or for how long, but the silence of rural Kansas was lost in the ringing behind his ears. 

The jacket lay at Dean’s feet, a crumple of wrinkled fabric. The pitch of night had started to lighten, hinting at sunrise. Dean had torn the jacket off the moment they returned to the bunker, stuffing it in Baby’s trunk without even so much as taking another look at it. He didn’t want to look at the last piece of Cas that he left behind. But now Dean could see it clearly. The shoulder of the jacket faced upwards, most of the handprint a dark contrast to the color of the fabric. Dying and being sent back had meant Dean’s body had been rebuilt several times over. The handprint Cas left when he pulled him out of the Pit was long gone. Seeing the handprint mirroring the original sent a chill down Dean’s spine. He could almost feel the press of his hand on the muscle of his shoulder. A ghost touch.

Dean’s chest swelled and he felt the sting of tears welling, but he bit them back. He raised his head, looking around to where he was. Dean knew he was being irresponsible, downright stupid. Only an idiot would have gone out walking with barely any weapons in the dark in the middle of nowhere. He looked around to take stock of where he was. Fields. On his right, a field of short grass gave way to corn down the property. A large farmhouse sat halfway down, near a silo, but at this distance it was tiny. Dean figured the surrounding fields belonged to the same farm. It was normal. Just a normal rural intersection. Just a normal farm. 

But it wasn’t right. No matter how normal this farm, the corn, the intersection or anything would be, it wasn’t right without Cas in it. 

Dean sucked in a shaky breath before kneeling to pick up the jacket. His fingertips brushed stiff, dried blood and his fingers stilled, palm pressing down below the print. He dropped his head once again, eyes fluttering shut. He didn’t know how to do this. Would he even come? He had to at least try. 

“Jack?” He whispered. He cleared his throat, his fingers fisting through the fabric of the jacket.

“Jack,” he said, clearer, “I… I messed up, man. Okay? I messed up big time.” 

“I know I told you Cas summoned the Empty. He did. But he shouldn’t have had to. It’s my fault. I’m the one that Billie came after, and Cas he-” Dean’s voice cut out, the sting of guilt and tears rising again, “He paid the price. It’s my fault, Jack, and I can’t do a damn thing about it. He’s in there, suffering, and it’s not right. And when you sucked up all of Chuck’s powers, after you brought everyone back, I thought we’d get him out. But then you left, and I let you go without stopping you.” Dean sighed; he’d made the same mistake twice. The familiarity hit him like a punch to the gut.

“Jack, you gotta get Cas out. I know you said you were gonna be real hands-off, not make the same mistakes that Chuck did. I know, but Cas shouldn’t have had to-” Dean stopped, cold air burning his lungs with each deep breath. His free hand came up to press his eyes through his lids, squeezing them tight.

“He’s family, Jack, _please_.”

He waited, listening to the rustle of the grass around him. He listened for anything. For a scrape of a shoe, the soft flutter he used to hear when angels appeared out of nowhere, for anything. Dean’s fingers cramped and he relaxed them, flexing and shifting his weight from one side to the other. He rested his elbow on his thigh, the other hand pressing back down into the jacket. Silence. No sound of anyone, anything. He opened his eyes. It was lighter now, on the very precipice of sunrise, and everything was cloaked in the early morning blue, chilling the air around him as if he wasn’t already cold despite the small sheen of sweat forming on his skin. He stood, grabbing the jacket off of the ground before folding it and holding it between his hands. 

His shoulders slumped and Dean couldn’t help but feel it, that deep feeling dragging him down. Disappointment. He didn’t know if he had it in him to be angry right now, but standing alone in the middle of that road, he felt hopeless. And guilty for feeling hopeless. Guilty for everything. For getting Cas killed. For letting Jack go. For being too much of a pussy to try earlier, to try harder. 

He knew he’d have to go back to the bunker. Back to face Sam and his moving on bullshit. He’d have to get past it, live with it. Live with the knowledge that he got his best friend killed. Live with the guilt. 

No. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t make the same mistake he had made. He was done repeating mistakes. There had to be a way, even if Jack wouldn’t come. He’d go back to the bunker and do research; find out how he can get Cas out. 

Dean made up his mind and he let his hands drop to his side, wheeling around to make sense of where he was and go home. 

Mid-turn, a flash of white caught his attention. His eyes landed on something. Someone. White jacket and blue jeans. Just how he left them just days ago. Dean stilled and his breath caught in his throat. 

“Jack?”


	2. 2

Dean stared. On the other side of the street there he was, all goofy smiles and eyes that, though Dean once thought of as innocent, now have seen. There wasn’t just newness to life to him now, there was an understanding of being, a power that Dean could sense from him. The feeling knotted his stomach. He was nervous. Uneasy. A week shouldn’t have changed so much, but there was something about him now. Something more. Though he’s God now, Dean shouldn’t be so shocked.

Jack lifts his hand in a motionless wave. “Hi.”

 _I’m still me_. The words came back to Dean, an echo around two men standing on a normal road in the middle of a normal farm; the significance of who they were so lost to the world in the hum of mundane.

Dean couldn’t fight the smile that found its way upwards at it all; at Jack. Godly powers could get fucked for all Dean cared. It took only four long strides to grip the side of his face and guide Jack into the hug he should have left him with. One arm wrapped around his back, one hand in between shoulder blades and the other coming up around to press across his shoulders.

“I’m glad to see you,” he muttered, the relief flowing through him and he gripped Jack tighter. Arms raised under Dean’s own, a stiff and awkward hug back. Dean should not have been so surprised to see Jack so… Jack-like; even after such a short time since they last saw each other, but the absolute power that he absorbed scared Dean. Not in such a way he feared him, but that he worried for him. Becoming God surely changes a man.

Jack was still himself, something that without warning, his chest swelled and his chest thumped with pride.

 _Cas would be proud of him, too,_ Dean thought. The thump of pride turned cold and ugly and the guilt returned to settle deep in his bones. He hadn’t forgotten about why he called Jack, he couldn’t, but the thought ripped him out of the moment so violently it was like being submerged in ice water. The moment passed and Dean let go to hold Jack at an arm’s length.

“Not that I don’t want to catch up, it’s real good to see you, but we gotta talk.” He let go and Jack’s expression, one that was not much more than a look of familiar contentment, did not change. It puzzled Dean, the fear that Jack would refuse drove the confusion. Jack had heard his prayer, his plea, to save the angel. It seemed as though Jack already knew what he was going to do. Jack’s appearance was the only thing that kept Dean’s hope alive. Though he could be there to wash his hands of the situation for good, a possibility that nearly killed Dean’s hope.

“You called me about Castiel.”

“Yes, yes! Look, I know you said you were gonna be hands-off, and I get it, I really do, but he sacrificed himself to save me and it’s not right to leave him behind.” Jack’s eyes drew together, forehead creasing. _Not good,_ Dean thought. Jack was confused.

“Dean-”

“Don’t say no, okay? Jack, please, just listen to me. Cas, he’s… he’s family. To me, to Sam, to _you_. Every living thing in the entire universe got damn near wiped for good, but you brought them back. Cas let the Empty take him, to save me, so we could save the world. I’m not supposed to be here! I’ve cheated dirt naps so many times, I should be gone. But Cas shouldn’t-'' Dean hesitated and inhaled a deep breath. “He’s family and I can’t get him out on my own so you gotta help me.”

“Dean, Castiel is alive.” No.

That couldn’t be. Cas knew how Dean didn’t want him to call on the Empty, how he told him not to. Cas wouldn’t be pulled out, alive, and not come back. He wouldn’t. Ugly, dark feelings teetered at the edge of Dean.

“What?”

“Cas is no longer in the Empty.” Jack looked around, almost as if he was looking for someone. Dean followed his gaze, half expecting Cas to show up if he really was alive, but when there was nothing Dean kept his eyes fixed on Jack. He was going to get answers.

“Since when?” He sputtered, ignoring how deep and angry his voice came out.

“After I restored the world and left, I retrieved him from the Empty. He is in Heaven.”

“But he’s alive? Full angel, feathers and all, and just chilling in Heaven?”

“We have been working together, but yes.”

“Well, that’s just fan-friggin-tastic. I spend a week thinking he’s dead, going out of my mind guilty, and he’s vacationing in the clouds without so much as calling to let me know he’s alive.” Dean stopped, the focus of his vision blurring as he looked down to the ground. The anger rose in him, an awful feeling that he never wanted to feel again. The same anger he’d had before when he blamed Cas for Mary. The same anger that reared every time Cas lied over all these years. The hot sting of betrayal. It settled deep in his chest, where it sat so many times before.

“You’re angry,” Jack noted, confused again.

“Why in the hell hasn’t he called?” He demanded.

“I don’t know. We have been...” Jack’s gaze, which while focused on Dean, now looked as if he was seeing more than just Dean, like instead of Dean he was seeing _everything_ , “busy.”

“Doing what?” Jack’s eyes snapped back to Dean, the corners of his mouth twitching up.

“Reshaping Heaven.”

“Oh,” he whispered.

_Oh._

The anger planted in Dean softened, but only slightly. Reshaping Heaven. There were concepts that, to a human, would never set in full. The outcome, the basic bones of cause and effect, what happened, and what resulted, would be within reach of understanding. The complexities of reorganizing, molding, and shaping an endless celestial plane? Thinking of those complexities was when Dean felt his smallest, his most random and inconsequential in the universe despite having met and beaten the creator of it all himself. Busy must’ve been an understatement.

Dean resolved to feel the anger, to let the anger drive, but something shifted. He felt the same shift before when Chuck labeled him “the ultimate killer,” and Dean rejected the slander. Before Cas, he might have agreed.

This, the anger and blame, happened before. Cas left, Dean didn’t stop him, and almost lost him while still holding onto misdirected outrage.

_I don’t know why I get so angry._

The words were a truth Dean never meant to tell another soul. Anyone could spend any amount of time with him and know he was always angry, at something or someone. But when facing losing someone without righting wrongs, too much happened to not make it right with Cas. He hadn’t meant to cry, to say the things that play on repeat that keep him up at night, to bear a tender spot to Cas. And after it all, after spending his last moments trying to convince Dean he was so much more than Dean thought he was, Cas deserved better than that.

So he let it fall.

Jack noticed with a draw to the brows and a tilt of his head, again. Though it wasn’t clear how expansive his new powers were, which to be in every raindrop seemed like a whole hell of a lot to Dean, he felt vulnerable in front of Jack now; like he knew exactly how he was feeling with all the staring. The exposure sent an uncomfortable feeling down his spine.

“Heaven?” Maybe the topic would turn so that he felt less like an exposed wire.

Jack nodded. “Yes, I went and saw my mother. She has spent some time in Heaven now, so she and Cas had ideas on how to improve Heaven.”

“It’s Heaven, it’s not supposed to get better. You got your own personal condo, rent-free, and an eternity’s supply of whatever you want. How’s it get better?” The sarcasm, though meant wholeheartedly, sounded like a poor attempt to ignore the elephant in the middle of the farm. Busy or not, if Jack could take a study break from being God, Cas could pop in to let them know he wasn’t dead. Cas was avoiding him, and it made Dean just felt utterly… bothered.

“It’s different than that now. It’s not individualized now. It is one, and anyone is free to do as they please.” Bothered or not, the news surprised Dean.

“So Heaven’s now an open-world game? Go anywhere, do anything, see anyone?” Jack nodded in agreement.

Awesome. “Awesome.”

Thoughts of his parents ran through his head, and he wondered where they were. What they were doing now that Heaven’s a free for all.

“John and Mary live together in a house near the base of a mountain, a few miles from Bobby. They’re happy.” The news sent waves of happiness through him he hasn’t felt in weeks. His parents and Bobby were finally settled and together in a Heaven they deserved. He smiled warm, in memory of them. The happiness was enough to ignore how he was now certain Jack could hear his thoughts somehow. He’ll let it pass.

“You checked in on them?”

“Yes. Cas and I both did.” The warmth spread again.

“Well, kid, I’m grateful. And it sounds like you’re doing well at being the Man Upstairs, but will Sam and I get to see you again?” The same feeling when Jack declined to go back to the bunker a week before set heavy in the air.

“You will.” His voice held nothing for Dean. An understanding passed between them. He’ll see them again in Heaven. Dean was lucky that Jack showed up now. Lucky didn’t even begin to cover it.

“I see.”

“Dean, it’s Sam.” Dean threw him a confused look. His pocket vibrated and his ringtone sounded. He didn’t even remember grabbing his phone before he left. He was sure he hadn’t. He pulled it out and looked at the caller ID. Sam. Dean lifted his head to look at Jack, but there was no one there.

 _That son of a bitch! He just left._ Dean answered the call.

“Sam?”

“Dean? Where the hell are you? It's not even six-thirty in the morning.” Dean checked his watch. Sam was right. He hadn’t meant to be out this long.

“Yeah, yeah, well, I went for a walk.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Uh.” Was everything okay? Cas is alive. Was that okay? “Yeah man, I think so. Sort of.”

“What’s going on? Why sort of?”

“I’m kind of in the middle of nowhere and we gotta talk and I am not walking back. I’m not even sure where I am.” Boot steps echoed through the phone speaker. Then the unmistakable creek of the Impala door opening. Sam had already been up and ready to go get him.

“Any road signs or anything?” Dean looked around. No sign in sight, just the neglected asphalt stretching on and on between crops. Then the farm sparked an idea and he looked around until he found what he was looking for, a sign at the entrance of a dirt road leading to the large set of buildings and barns. The sunrise brought enough light for Dean to read the sign without strain.

“No road signs but I’m right near a farm called Sadler Family Farms.”

“Dean,” Sam said just a moment later, “that’s a forty-five-minute walk.”

“Your point?”

“Give me five minutes.” Five minutes. Dean had five minutes to figure out what the hell just happened and how to tell Sam. How much should he even tell Sam, now that Dean knew Cas was alive? The thought sent a mix of emotions through him. He shifted his weight, feeling exposed to the openness of the outside; like Cas could see him making a fool of himself, standing in the middle of nowhere holding the jacket with his blood still on it, begging for his life. Could Cas even see him? Dean side-eyed the area. He wouldn’t even know if Cas was here. Either way, he wasn’t showing himself. The last time Cas died, when he came back, he called Dean. The thought had Dean’s heart slamming against his chest. The near-constant loss of people had Dean familiar with the feeling—with the pain. But never used to it.

Dean heard the dulcet purr of Baby before he saw her. He turned his head to see her coming towards him. Sam pulled into the center of the road and came to a stop. Dean walked up to meet them, pulled the door open, and slid into the passenger seat. He recognized Sam’s expression. _You want to drive?_ But when he didn’t say anything Sam put her in reverse and turned back the way he’d come. He continued to look at Dean from the corner of his vision, eyeing the jacket in Dean’s lap, and waited. Dean opened his mouth before closing it again. Where would he even start?

“You gonna tell me why you were out here?” Sam asked.

“I went for a walk.”

“Yeah, you said that already. It’s pretty unlike you. You know, walking?” Sam ignored the look he got. “Why though?”

 _To hell with it. Here goes,_ he thought.

“I talked to Jack.” Sam’s head whipped around, his graceful-slowing for a stop sign halted and the Impala jerked. “Watch it! If you aren’t gonna drive her right then you don’t get to drive at all.”

“You called him? I thought he wasn’t going to be down for house calls; that when he left, that was goodbye.” Sam continued driving.

“I asked for him to show up so that we could get Cas out. So he could.”

“And?” Dean looked out the window at the blur of green fields and houses.

“And Cas is already out, Sammy. He’s alive. Has been this whole week seems like,” he snipped. Dean felt the hot bristle when the anger piqued again.

“What?” Sam asked, managing to not slam on the brakes again. “Where is he? If he’s alive why hasn’t he come back to the bunker?”

“Jack said they were busy.”

“Busy with what?”

“Reshaping heaven.” Sam turned his head again as if he misheard what he said. “Yeah, no more living _Dawson’s Creek_ reruns. I think he—they— made it like here, like Earth, where you can roam around and do what you want. Free will and all that.” The bunker appeared in the distance. Dean really hadn’t walked too far. Sam made a noise, a scoffing scrape that, to Dean, sounded like Sam was impressed. Not that Dean wasn’t. He was happy his parents and Bobby had something good now. “Yeah, apparently Mom and Dad are living the apple-pie life now.”

Sam turned to pull into the bunker’s garage. “Really?” Dean nodded, one that Sam saw. Neither of them said a word more about it. They didn’t need to.

When Sam parked the Impala, he turned to Dean. “There’s more.” It wasn’t a question. The confidence in his voice was evident he knew that there was more that Dean wasn’t telling him. Dean avoided looking at Sam, instead, he sank down into the seat. Dean didn’t want to piss Sam off by thinking he was keeping important secrets, but this wasn’t one he had to know.

“Look, when Cas did what he did, he said his goodbyes.” Thinking of it sent his heart ramming into his ribcage again. Hard enough he almost lurched forward. His stomach knotted. Dean spent days drinking to try and forget the way he felt seeing Cas die again. His hands urged to get their fingers on another glass of anything strong.

“What happened between you two, Dean? You’ve been miserable all week then you just up and come back saying you talked to Jack and Cas is alive?”

“He said he loved me, okay?” He spit the truth out before Same barely finished, before he had time to second guess it, and he threw up his hands and they came back down on his thighs with a slap. “He made a deal when Jack died, his life for Jack’s. He said the Empty would take him when he had a moment of true happiness. He knew what it was, so he said it, and it took him.”

Sam looked unfazed.

“So that’s why-” he started and Dean knew where he was going with it.

“No, Sam. That’s not why. He _died_ for my dumbass decisions!” Guilt reared, engulfing him, burning him from the inside out. It was, all of a sudden, too hot in the car. Dean pulled the door and left Sam alone inside. He continued down the hall, en route to somewhere that wasn’t the garage. He heard the shut of the Impala’s door behind him.

“Dean!” Dean walked through into the war room and tossed the jacket on the table, Sam right on his tail. “Dean, it wasn’t your fault.”

“Yeah, Sammy, it was. She came for _me_ and losing-” he paused, running a hand over his face, “You know this stuff eats at me, man. But it’s Cas, Sam. I’ve lost him before and it’s like losing you. He’s family.” Sam rested a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“I know he is. But Cas knew the choice he was making.” Dean moved out of his grip to sit down at the table. Miracle’s collar jangled as he trotted down the hall and up to the brothers, clearly curious at all the noise. Dean let his hand rest on the dog’s head, petting softly, something that earned him a lot of tail wags.

“Doesn’t mean there wasn’t another way,” Dean replied.

“Maybe so, but there might not have been in that moment.”

“I wasn’t going to just let him in there. Once Jack absorbed Chuck’s power I figured we’d Houdini him out of there.” Realization dawned on Sam. He leaned against the table next to Dean, arms crossed.

“But then Jack left.” Dean raised a hand in agreement. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I thought it was final; no more do-overs, including Cas. But I couldn’t just keep sitting on my thumbs without even trying.”

Sam moved to pull a chair up and sit across from Dean and watched Miracle lay down between them, content to just rest there. Dean twitched at the press of his gun against his back as it grew too uncomfortable. He pulled it out and set it amongst the mass of stuff on the table.

Sam ran a hand through his hair before clearing his throat. “Dean-”

“Sam, I do not want to have that talk.”

“Come on, he said-”

“I know what he said. And I said I don’t want to have that talk.”

“Dean, I just want to know how you feel!” It shouldn’t have stunned Dean, but it did. Dean Winchester was a ladies man through and through. He could have almost any woman any time, and he knew it. Sam knew this. So the question shouldn’t have twisted Dean’s stomach again, but it did. Cas having feelings didn’t automatically mean Dean’s needed to be questioned.

“He’s my best friend, Sam. What do you think?”

“I think I’d rather hear it from you.” Something was off about Sam’s reaction in the car–and now. He was his usual prying self, but something in how he was asking set off Dean’s spidey senses.

“What's with the-?” he gestured at Sam with his hand.

“With what?”

“With you? Aren’t you surprised?” Sam did the last thing Dean expects him to at that moment. He smiled. A small upturn of the lips, almost smug in expression, but a smile nonetheless. Sam seemed hesitant but continued.

“Do… do you remember when Cas was dying? From the Lance of Micheal?” Dean nodded. It wasn’t a fond memory of his. How could it be? But he remembered it plain as day. “Well, when he was talking he said ‘I love you,’ and I thought at first he was saying it to you. I just kind of put two and two together over the past few years.”

“Oh shit,” Dean muttered. Cas said it before. Cas said it to him. He meant it. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what, Dean? It wasn’t mine to tell. It was between you guys.”

“Wait, you don’t think I actually… _like_ him, do you?” Dean spit the word as he’d be struck by lighting if true. Dean Winchester was not gay. Sure, he’d moved on from his father’s prejudices that were an unfortunate byproduct of spending so much time with the man, but that didn’t mean he was gay. That was just gross to him.

“No, Dean, but-”

“No buts, Sam.” He commanded. Sam shut his mouth and leaned back in the chair. Dean stared at the jacket in a heap over lore books and Men of Letters archives. Sam must have been working on some case or doing some homework over the past week. He felt another pang of guilt. He looked sheepishly at his brother.

“Sammy, I’m sorry.” He looked genuinely confused.

“For what?”

“I know you’ve been keeping a good eye out for whether everything went to shit after Chuck, and probably Chuck. I would’ve. I haven't been here, not really, not since Jack left.” They locked eyes over lore and archives.

“Dean, you were going through something. It’s okay, I got it handled.”

“I know you do, Sammy. You learned from the best.” They shared a smile, something that was much needed after their week. A moment of peaceful silence hung in the air. Until Sam opened his mouth.

“About Cas-”

_For Christ’s sake!_

“Sam!”

“No, Dean, I think there’s more to why he hasn’t come back.” Sam’s words carried more concern than panic. He didn’t know something Dean didn't, right? “Maybe he’s afraid to.”

Dean shrugged. Surely that couldn’t be it. “Why the hell would he be afraid? He came back before.” Sam shot him a look as if he was to understand immediately.

“He didn’t confess before Lucifer stabbed him, though. I think he might be worried you’ll cut ties. Or that you’re pissed.”

“I’m not pissed. Why would I be pissed?”

“I’m not saying you are. I’m saying Cas probably thought he’d never see you again and he wouldn’t have to deal with how you might react.” He let what Sam said sink in. It made sense, the part about him expecting never to see Dean again. The other parts, though, not so much.

 _There’s no way he’s just afraid,_ Dean thought. _That’s just stupid._

Wasn’t it? The longer Dean let the idea sit in his mind, the more plausible it sounded. Cas, the weird little dork he was, surely thought Dean would tell him to hit the road. Such a silly notion almost amused Dean. If he wasn’t worried that his best friend would never return then he might have laughed. Might have.

“He’s in Heaven, right? So maybe if you pray to him, he’ll call,” Sam suggested.

“Alright,” he agrees.

Dean felt an odd hesitation, the same one that nearly paralyzed him for a moment when Lucifer was tricking Dean to open the bunker door. He realized he was scared. Though of what, he couldn’t identify. He wanted Cas to come back, that never changed after any time Cas died. So why did, when he opened his mouth to pray, nothing came out?

“Dean?” Sam asked, breaking the tension in Dean’s mind.

“Yeah, uh,” Dean closed his eyes and focused all his sincerity into his prayer, “Cas?” One eye popped open to survey. He was grateful to see that Sam had his eyes closed too. Was he praying to Cas to come back too? He shut his eye again.

“Cas, you gettin’ this, buddy? Where the hell are you? Jack said you were alive, so time to call into work, take a sick day and at least say hi.” Dean waited a moment, squeezing his eyes shut. “Come on, Cas,” he whispered.

A buzzing sound sent an adrenaline rush up Dean. He reached for his pocket out of instinct—and hope—but it wasn’t his phone. The low hit Dean harder than the high. Sam already had his phone out and pressed it to his ear.

“Eileen? What’s wrong?” His pinched face relaxed. Clearly, Sam had worried something was wrong. Dean wondered what was going on with her now that she was back, not that anyone noticed that they’d been poofed into nothing. Sam would have told Eileen the truth of what happened, and Eileen would have handled it with ease. Dean was sure.

“Yeah, no problem-” Sam checked his watch. “Yeah, that sounds good. Okay.” When he hung up Dean raised his eyebrow, something Sam ignored.

“It’s pretty early in the morning for a booty call,” he quipped, amused.

“Ha, ha. Very funny.”

“What’s with the call then?”

“She’s on a hunt. Skinwalker outside of Omaha. She caught the trail a few days ago, it’s her first so she asked me to come.”

“A few days ago? You didn’t go with her earlier?”

“I didn’t know what she was after, I just knew she was on another hunt.”

“Sam, but you still let her hunt that alone?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t let her do anything,” Sam grumbled. “She’s capable of handling herself.”

“Clearly not if she just asked you for help!” Dean didn’t miss the expression on Sam’s face before it was gone. And then it hit Dean. He chuckled.

“You already offered and she turned you down,” he stated. The look on Sam’s face told him everything he needed to know. “Well, hey at least she’s asking now. Omaha is a few hours from here, so maybe we’ll be able to convince her-”

“We?” Dean looked at Sam as he rose, throwing Dean a sideways smile. “There’s no we.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The invitation was for me. Plus you need to be here.” Sam started towards the hallway that held his room.

“Why?”

“Because I wouldn’t put you up against a chihuahua right now. You’re hungover, distracted, and you need to be here in case Cas comes looking.” The last of the sentence echoed down the halls, quieter now that Sam was farther down. Dean was prepared to argue, but the last one shut him up. Cas knew their numbers. He could call them anywhere, anytime. But, somehow needing to be here in case he returned? No amount of itching to kick some monster ass could’ve broken that logic to him.

He’d wait there for Cas.


End file.
